Acting on Impulse Read online

  “There’s rather a curious history attached to this piece,” said Haskin, picking up an old and rivetted plate. He told Diana the history, and as he was a good talker, she was interested. She became rather more enthusiastic, and ventured a guess that a certain vase on the shelf was very rare. Mr. Haskin showed her how to distinguish it from one of a later period, then proceeded to follow out Mrs. Grafton’s commands. He would have done a great deal for Mrs. Grafton.

  “You take an interest in china?”

  She hesitated.

  “N—yes,” she acknowledged.

  “I wonder if you’re interested enough to help me with a catalogue I’m making? Or would it bore you?”

  Diana thought that it was highly probable that it would, but she realised that this was a wonderful opportunity for acquiring knowledge on the subject of china.

  “I’d love to,” she said mendaciously. “But I know nothing about china. Should I be any use?”

  Mr. Haskin thought privately that so far from being useful she would be a hindrance, but he did not say this. Mrs. Grafton was smiling at him.

  “Mother,” said Diana, when they were alone. “I'm going to help Mr. Haskin to catalogue his collection.”

  “Oh, are you?” said Mrs. Grafton ingenuously. “Won’t it bore you?”

  “Yes, I think it will, but I’ve made up my mind that I haven’t been altogether fair to George. In fact, the row was a good deal my fault. And I’m not going back to him until I know something about his beastly—his china.”

  Mrs. Grafton put an arm about her waist and gave her a little squeeze.

  “I PICKED up a genuine piece of old Sèvres yesterday,” said Diana. “In a funny little shop in Soho. The man obviously didn’t know its worth. His shop was full of the most awful oddments.”

  “Was it the same man who palmed off that faked—”

  “No, it wasn't,” said Diana haughtily. “And I wish you wouldn’t keep ramming that down my throat. I know I was taken in, but it was over a month ago, when I didn’t know anything about china.”

  “You don’t know much now,” said Haskin, twinkling.

  “Anyway, I pointed the flaw out to you in that jug you wanted to buy.”

  “I should have discovered it—”

  “The point is,” said Diana triumphantly, “that I saw it first. By the way, I’m coming with you to Christie’s this afternoon. My husband’s very keen on Chinese stuff, and I’m hoping to find something really good.”

  “If it’s really good, you’ll have to pay a big price for it, young lady.”

  “What I’m looking for is—is a Ming vase,” said Diana, bending studiously over her catalogue, and fingering the jagged piece of china that hung on gold chain about her neck.

  “Lots of us are doing that,” said Haskin pessimistically. “I suppose you’re dancing, tonight, as usual?”

  “I haven’t danced more than twice since I came to town!” flamed Diana.

  “Nor you have. Gone off it?”

  “N—I’m not in the mood for it. As a matter of fact, I am going out tonight, with an old friend. To the Empress Rooms.”

  The old friend, one Stephen Markham, found Diana changed for the worse. He thought she seemed sad, and her newly-acquired habit of talking wisely, but not very learnedly, of Chinese porcelain, palled on him.

  “Look here, Di, what’s the matter with you?” he demanded at last. “I don’t know anything about the what-you-may-call-it Ming stuff, and I don’t want to. So chuck it!”

  “Ah!” said Diana. “I used to think as you do. But I assure you, Stephen, it’s a most fascinating subject. I don’t know an awful lot about it, of course—”

  “Quite enough,” said Stephen, who had known her from her babyhood, and therefore never erred on the side of politeness.

  “But my husband is a great authority on it.”

  “Oh, good lord!” groaned Stephen. He found that Diana had stiffened in every line of her body, and was staring fixedly across the hall. “What’s up?”

  “No—nothing,” said Diana relapsing.

  “Then shall we dance?”

  “No—I mean—Stephen, can we sit in the outside room? It’s so hot here.”

  “Certainly,” he answered, rather mystified. “Do you feel ill?”

  “No—thank you. Just too hot.”

  At the far end of the hall she had just seen George. George was fox-trotting with a girl she didn't know. Diana was quivering with indignation. That George—her husband—should dare to take a bare-backed creature out to dance! And what was George doing, circling round a dancing hall? He, who when she had asked him, had refused to learn to dance at all?”

  “I want to go home!” said Diana suddenly. “This sort of thing has got to be stopped!”

  “Look here. Di, what are you driving at?” demanded her aggrieved partner. “What sort of thing—and why?”

  “Nothing. I spoke without thinking. I’m awfully sorry, Stephen, but I don’t think I feel like dancing tonight. Anyway, not here.”

  “Why ever didn’t you say so before?” said Stephen, relieved. “Of course, we’ll go somewhere else.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw George laugh at something his partner had said. She rose quickly.

  “I’ve changed my mind. We’ll stay here. Come on, let’s dance!”

  “You’re mad,” Stephen told her, but he led her out on to the floor.

  Then Diana began to flirt with him, much to his surprise. Her eyes and her cheeks were bright; to all outward appearances she was enjoying herself to the top of her bent.

  George saw her, and observed her gaiety. He tried to catch her eye—and failed. He didn’t know who her partner was, but he thought him an objectionable-looking fellow. He further thought that it would improve his appearance if someone were to hit him exceedingly hard between the eyes.

  “I’m going to put a stop to this!” he said savagely.

  The dancing instructress was bewildered. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t speaking to you. Would you say that I could dance yet?”

  “Oh, you’re greatly improved!” she said. “Of course, you still want polish. Another six lessons ought to—”

  “I’ll let you know about it,” he promised. “Er—I’ve just seen someone I know. Do you mind if I—?”

  “Oh, not at all!” she shrugged. “As it happens, I’m engaged for the next dance.”

  But when George, having deposited her outside, returned to the hall, Di and her partner were nowhere to be seen. She had fled, dragging Stephen with her.

  “This,” said George, “is the limit.”

  HE was staying at his club, so it did not take him long next morning to reach Mrs. Grafton’s flat. Mrs. Grafton received him with customary placidity.

  “Ah, good morning, George! Dear me, how cross you look!”

  “I want to see my wife,” said George.

  “You're just too late,” answered Mrs. Grafton. “She’s gone.”

  “Gone!” he almost shouted. “Where?”

  “Don’t roar, George!” she reproved him. “She has gone to Mr. Haskin’s. She—er—does some work for him.”

  “Oh, does she?” said George. “Is he a loutish-looking ass with horrible black hair, and a nose that—”

  “Good gracious me, no! He’s as old as I am. Older.”

  “Oh!” said George, rather appeased. “Where does he live? I insist on seeing my wife at once!”

  “My dear boy, you needn't keep on saying ‘my wife’ like that. I’m perfectly aware of your relationship. Mr. Haskin lives in Bolton Gardens. No. 6.”

  “Thanks,” said George, and walked to the door.

  Mrs. Grafton went back to her household accounts with a wise smile on her lips.

  Haskin had left the library to fetch a magnifying glass when George entered the house.

  “I want to see Mrs. Doone, please,” said George of the man-servant.

  “Yes, sir.” James was accustom